Université des Écrivains Misérables
by Bubonic Woodchuck
Summary: A Miss Cam approved spinoff. The torture, er, education of the Les Misérables fandom begins here. Read the Brick. Meet the Staff. Learn through Pain. Applications submitted in reviews will NOT be accepted!
1. Patria Augusta Sparklymoon

**Disclaimer: **We don't own Les Misérables in any of its book, musical, or film incarnations.

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**Université des Écrivains Misérables**

By Bubonic Woodchuck, lokogato-sama, and Zorpisuttle

Chapter One: Patria Augusta Sparklymoon

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"_Oh Patria Augusta Sparklymoon" said Enjarlas longignly "i love u so much."_

"_And i love u too Enjarlas" said Patria Augusta Sparlklymoon "lets ask the bishop of that one place 2 get us married!1"_

"_Ok" said Enjarlas "i will get married to u even htough that stupid Grantair person is still folloing me around"_

"_Ok" said Patria Augusta Sparklymoon and so they did. The end._

Chelsea Peterson clicked "Save," leaned back in her chair, and grinned. _Another fic completed_, she thought contentedly. She loved it when Enjolras got a happy ending. Victor Hugo was _such_ an idiot for making Enjolras die, and she was quite sure her readers would share her sentiments.

Well, the readers that mattered would. All those jerks who babbled about canon were _so_ totally nerds. What did they mean, Enjolras wasn't interested in women? Hugo had mentioned some Patria lady, right? She'd skipped that bit, really. Everything after that was _so_ boring. Who cared about that stupid Jean Valjean guy anyway? Les Miswas all about _Enjolras._

Chelsea got up and retrieved a beer from the refrigerator (her parents weren't home), whistling happily to herself. Soon she would be receiving a flood of reviews gushing about how well she wrote, she was sure of it. As she sat down, she looked at her fic again. Sure, it might have been a tad short, and perhaps she didn't know how to spell most of the words, but she didn't care. All that mattered was that Enjolras got the girl in the end.

Right?

"Wrong," said a voice from behind her.

Chelsea screamed, nearly spilling her beer, and spun around, eyes wide. "Who the –"

A man in what appeared to be some very old-fashioned clothing was carrying a rather large stack of paper and staring at Chelsea's monitor with a dubious expression on his face. "Well," he said, in a voice that didn't quite know whether to be incredulous or amused. "No wonder they wanted you to attend."

"Who wanted me to attend what?" demanded Chelsea. "And who are you, and what are you doing in my house! Get out before I call the police!"

"My name," said the man with more dignity than was strictly necessary (Chelsea began to suspect he was slightly inebriated), "is Grantaire – Monsieur Grantaire to you – and you are cordially invited to attend L'université des Écrivains Misérables by Mademoiselles Irene, Pelly, and Pathy." A pause. "You don't have an option, mind," he added, and dumped the stack of papers unceremoniously on Chelsea's desk.

Chelsea's mind was spinning. _L'université…_ "Wait a minute, did you say Grantaire?" she said out loud. "As in the Grantaire from Les Mis?" Her voice was getting increasingly squeaky. If Grantaire was here, then – then that must mean Enjy was nearby!

He bowed. "Capitol and master of floral games at your service," he said sardonically. "Now, mademoiselle, if you'd kindly fill out the forms –"

"Wait," interrupted Chelsea, the rush of fangirl adrenaline decreasing slightly. "Forms for _what?_"

"You mean you haven't figured out yet?" asked Grantaire irritably. "Read the letter." He gestured impatiently at the stack of papers, and Chelsea realized that there was indeed a sealed piece of paper lying on top of the stack. She retrieved it, opened it up, and began to read.

_Dear Miss Peterson:_

_We regret - well, not really - to inform you that due to the horrendous quality of your writing, you are requested to attend L'université des Écrivains Misérables, and will be forced to do so until your writing improves. Please fill out the enclosed forms and pack your things. Should you decide to ignore our request…well, we're quite sure you won't do that._

_Sincerely,_

_Miss Irene and Management_

"A university," Chelsea said confusedly.

"For authors like you," elaborated Grantaire. "Until you pass, I'm afraid you won't be allowed to write fanfiction."

"But –" squeaked Chelsea. "My fanfiction isn't horrendous!"

The look Grantaire gave her told her all that needed to be said. He patted the papers with one hand. "These are your enrollment papers. You needn't worry about sending them in. Your ride will arrive tomorrow morning. I trust I shall see you soon." And before Chelsea could say another word, he had vanished.

It took her another ten minutes to realize he'd filched the beer.

Chelsea opened her mouth, frowned, and closed it again. It was probably a good thing. The beer probably had something odd in it. She'd been seeing things, of course. She looked down – the papers were still there. She sighed.

A quick rummage through the papers revealed a list of courses. "Tormented Inner Monologues. Lecturers: Messieurs Valjean and Javert." "Canonical Pairings: Why They Work, How They Work, and How To Look At Them Without Wincing. Lecturers: Monsieur and Madame Pontmercy." "Musicalverse vs. Bookverse. Lecturer: Monsieur Bahorel." "Why We Hate The 1998 Movie. Lecturers: Monsieur Enjolras and Mademoiselle Thénardier."

Oh. Oh, my. Enjolras was teaching a class! If this was a dream (which it was, of course), then it was a _very_ good dream. Chelsea seized the forms, grabbed a pen, and began to write with wild abandon.

_Name: _Chelsea Peterson

_Age: _17

_Gender (please circle one): Male / Female / Not Applicable / Both (if "Not Applicable" or "Both," please explain)_

Chelsea blinked. That was a silly question. Female, of course.

_Physical Description:_

She paused, then grinned and scribbled, "a cascade of ebony hare and vibrent gold-fleked indigo eyes. six feet tall and not to skinny & not to fat."

_Have you watched the musical? _Yes

_Have you read the book?_

She paused. Well, she'd read the parts with Enjolras in. That had to be at least ninety percent of the book…right? She shrugged and wrote "Yes."

_Have you watched the 1998 movie? _No

_Have you ever written a Mary-Sue? _Patria is NOT a Mary-Sue!

_Have you ever written slash? _EW NO!

_Lust Object(s) (maximum of two): _Enjarlas!

_Lusting: Obvious or Not-As-Obvious? _Obvious

_Any particular characters you hate? Why? _I h8 Cosite shes so dumb not liek Eponen whos kewl

_Favorite Pairing: _Patria/Enjarlas Patrias my charcter shes kewl!

_Why do you write Les Misérables fanfiction?_ Cuz Enjarlas is hott!

_Have you read OFUM?_ No

_Fear of the Following (mark all that apply): Javert / The Brick / Angry Revolutionaries / Rats / Gamins / Corsets / Victor Hugo / None of the above_

Chelsea blinked. Why would she be afraid of angry revolutionaries? They were so sexy! Javert was just a creepy old man who wasn't as hot as Enjolras. And what was so scary about a brick? Granted, she was a little afraid of rats, but gamins were cute and corsets couldn't really be so bad if they made you look skinny, right? And Victor Hugo was just a creepy old man too. She circled "Rats."

Quickly she filled out the rest of the forms. It was one in the morning when she'd finished, and she suddenly remembered that she'd have school in less than six hours. Muttering obscenities, she left the papers on her desk, turned off the lights, and flopped onto her bed, exhausted. She failed to notice that the forms vanished as soon as she turned her back. In a matter of seconds, Chelsea was fast asleep.

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_Back Room, Corinth Wineshop, Paris, France_

"Ireny, we've got another one."

The course coordinator of UDEM looked up from a pile of application forms. Miss Pelly, co-coordinator and mini-Brick trainer, stood in the doorway. She held what appeared to be a squirming book with hundreds of little feet and a mouth. Miss Irene pulled a face and stood up, pausing briefly to remove a dozing, bespectacled ferret from her shoulder before making her way over to Miss Pelly.

"Another one, is it?" she remarked. "What's its name?"

Miss Pelly grimaced. "_Enjarlas_."

"Enjarlas…?" Miss Irene blinked. "How do you – how do they – do they even bother to _check_ –"

"Of course not," said a voice. Mistress Pathy's head appeared above Miss Pelly's in the doorway. "That's why they're coming here," she added, grinning. There was, as usual, something rather unnerving in the grin.

"But _Enjarlas,_" said Miss Irene, looking down at the still-squirming book as the two co-coordinators entered the room. "If Enjolras gets wind of this one –"

"Gets wind of what?" interrupted a voice as the Narrative Laws of Comedy kicked in and the revolutionary leader himself marched in. His gaze fell on the mini-Brick. "_Oh._"

"Yep," said Miss Pelly cheerfully, and promptly deposited the book in Enjolras's arms. "His name is Enjarlas. He's yours now."

Enjolras blinked at the mini-Brick, which took no notice of him. "I have ten already."

"And there will no doubt be more," said Miss Irene. "Orientation Week starts in –" she checked her watch – "oh, twenty-seven hours or so, and then the fangirls will start pouring in."

"And everyone knows that you're the Legolas of the Les Mis continuum," said Mistress Pathy. "A few bodyguards never hurt."

Enjolras directed Glares at the coordinators. "Don't remind me," he muttered and exited the back room, the mini-Brick still in his arms.

Miss Irene grinned as she seated herself again and resumed going over applications. The ferret yawned and crawled back onto her shoulder. "You should see some of the spelling in these applications, Pathy," Miss Irene said mournfully. "On the other hand, maybe not. It might make you spontaneously combust. 'S making me twitch myself."

A grin that radiated pure evil from Mistress Pathy. "That's what GrammarBootCamp is for."

"And Mme. Houcheloup's cooking," added Miss Pelly.

"_Definitely_ Mme. Houcheloup's cooking."

"Gives a whole new meaning to 'Learning Through Pain.'"

The maniacal laughter lasted long into the night.

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_A Note from the Staff: Registration for UDEM is now open. Due to the website's policy on interactive stories, applications through reviews WILL NOT BE ACCEPTED. Kindly copy and paste the following form, fill it out, and e-mail it to us at lesmisofu(at)gmail(dot)com. Creativity is encouraged. Registration closes June 13, 2005._

_Name:_

_Age:_

_Gender (please circle one): Male / Female / Not Applicable / Both (if "Not Applicable" or "Both," please explain)_

_Physical Description:_

_Have you watched the musical?_

_Have you read the book?_

_Have you watched the 1998 movie? _

_Have you ever written a Mary-Sue? _

_Have you ever written slash? _

_Les Mis Lust Object(s) (maximum of two): _

_Lusting: Obvious or Not-As-Obvious? _

_Any particular characters you hate? Why? _

_Favorite Pairing:_

_Why do you write Les Misérables fanfiction?_

_Have you read OFUM?_

_Fear of the Following (mark all that apply): Javert / The Brick / Angry Revolutionaries / Rats / Gamins / Corsets / Victor Hugo / None of the above_

_Thank you in advance for registering._

_Miss Irene, Miss Pelly, and Mistress Pathy_


	2. DisOrientation

NOTE: If your applications have not been going through, blame Miss Irene. She was tragically half-asleep when she was writing and as a result, she claimed her e-mail address was lesmisofu(at)gmail(dot)net when it is in actuality lesmisofu(at)gmail(dot)com. As a result, we have decided to extend registration until further notice.

_Miss Irene apologizes for any wasted time and would be most appreciative if those whose e-mails did not go through were to send their applications again, this time to the correct address – lesmisofu(at)gmail(dot)com. Thank you._

_Finally, sorry about the wait. All complaints and nasty comments in general may be directed to Miss Irene and Mistress Pathy._

**Disclaimer: **We don't own Les Misérables in any of its book, musical, or film incarnations.

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**Université des Écrivains Misérables**

By Bubonic Woodchuck, lokogato-sama, and TheZorpisuttle

Chapter Two: (Dis)Orientation

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The first thing Chelsea saw when she woke up was a row of excessively sharp, pointy teeth. Naturally, she screamed and sat up, causing the book to fly across the room.

Wait – _book?_

Shoving the sheets off her bed, she leaned forward in an attempt to have a better look at whatever it was that had been in front of her face. It was indeed a book – a very thick book – but it appeared to have a mouth and dozens of tiny feet – and were those _sideburns?_ As she watched, it seemed to eye her, and slowly a long red tongue slid out of the mouth and would have licked its chops if it had had any.

"That's Javetr," said a voice. "You wouldn't have any snuff on you, would you? All the Javert minis are attracted to snuff, you know."

Chelsea blinked and looked up. A girl of about fifteen was sitting on a bed opposite hers. At this point Chelsea realized that she was no longer in her bedroom and screamed again.

"_OhmyGodwherethehellamIandwhoareyou?"_ she demanded frantically.

The girl seemed unruffled. "You're in L'université des Écrivains Misérables," she answered. "My name's Jennifer Michaels. I'm your roommate."

"Chelsea Peterson," Chelsea replied hesitantly. "So – so it wasn't a dream, then?"

"What? Oh, the forms. No, it wasn't."

"And what is _that?_" squeaked Chelsea, pointing at the sideburned book on the floor.

"Javetr," repeated Jennifer. "He's a mini-Brick. They're all named after misspellings of the canon characters' names."

"Canon?"

Jennifer gave her a look. "You're here for writing badfic, aren't you?"

"Uh…well, Grantaire randomly appeared in my room, see, and he said I was writing horrendous fanfiction or something," said Chelsea irritably. "I don't know what he was talking about. Patria Augusta Sparklymoon is _not_ a Mary-Sue. And he stole my beer, too."

Her roommate stifled a grin. "Patria wouldn't happen to have flowing black hair, would she?"

"How did you…"

Jennifer pointed at Chelsea's head. Chelsea looked confused for a moment before slowly raising her hand to hesitantly touch her hair. It _was_ a good deal longer than before. She grabbed several strands and peered at them.

"It's _black!_" she squeaked in delight. "And _pretty!_"

"Don't get too excited," said Jennifer. "There's a downside to it. There's always a downside to it when the staff gives you something good."

Chelsea's face fell slightly. "Er…right," she muttered as Javetr wandered out of the room. "So…uh…what are you here for?"

Jennifer blinked. "What am I here for? I'm here of my own free will."

"You – what!"

"I'm here because I want to understand the canons," explained Jennifer cheerfully. "There's nothing I'd like better than to sit down with Jean Valjean or Inspector Javert and get to know more than just the inner monologues Victor Hugo mentioned."

"Uhm. Right," Chelsea said awkwardly (she'd skipped the aforementioned monologues).

A girl poked her head through the doorway. "Miss Irene's called an assembly in the main hall in fifteen minutes," she said.

"We'll be there soon, Verity," Jennifer assured her. "Come on, Chelsea."

"Right, right," Chelsea said, her mind still spinning. "Coming."

As Jennifer and Chelsea stepped outside, Chelsea was suddenly struck by the fact that they no longer appeared to be in the twenty-first century. Despite the fact that they were standing in the middle of what looked like a modern university, horse-drawn carriages clattered by on a fairly regular basis and several men in waistcoats were making their way across the street. A sudden thought struck Chelsea: _Oh my GOD I'm within a mile of Enjolras! _The _Enjolras!_

She stifled a squee.

Jennifer gave her an odd look. "Are you all right?"

Chelsea could barely restrain her excitement. "Enjolras is here! He's here he's here he's here!"

Her roommate eyed her. "You'll be less enthusiastic about that in a few hours, I guarantee you."

"Party pooper," muttered Chelsea, but she lapsed into silence as they crossed the street. How could anyone not be enthusiastic about _Enjolras?_

In a few minutes they arrived at a massive and squat brick building, with shiny metal letters above the door proclaiming it "La Salle de Conférence." Jennifer pushed the door open, and the two of them went inside. The auditorium was relatively well-lit and tastefully decorated. Chelsea's eyes widened at the sheer number of students present. She hadn't known the fandom was so large.

Her gaze traveled from the sea of humanity to the vast stage at the front of the auditorium. There was a podium in the middle of the stage with a crest on the front. Lined up on either side of the podium were rickety-looking folding chairs, and seated on the chairs were various people, all of whom looked vaguely familiar. Chelsea mentally ticked them off as she and Jennifer moved closer to the front. _Hey, that's Javert…and that's Valjean, and there's that innkeeper guy whose name begins with a T…and…_

"_Oh my gosh ENJ_-mmmph!"

Jennifer kept her hand over Chelsea's mouth. "Be quiet!" she hissed. "Do you want to get in trouble?"

"Mmmphenjmmmph!"

"Sit down and shut up, all of you."

A young woman wearing a waistcoat and a cravat had stepped up to the podium. Her voice was relatively pleasant, but there was something not-so-nice lurking behind that voice - something that foretold of excruciatingly tight corsets and sleepless nights spent writing sonnets about the life of the Bishop of Digne. She glanced at the seething mass of students hurriedly finding seats and waited none too patiently.

As Chelsea slipped into a seat near the front (but further away from Enjolras than she would have liked), she noticed that the young woman had a ferret on her shoulder. What was odd about the ferret, though, was that it was wearing a little waistcoat and a cravat, and was sporting a pair of tiny spectacles. Chelsea blinked.

"Right then," said the woman at the podium. "First things first. Welcome to L'université des Écrivains Misérables. My name is Irene – Miss Irene to all of you little buggers. I'm the course coordinator here at UDÉM. If you have any problems with that, take it up with the Headmaster. Good luck. Saying that the Headmaster is long-winded just might be the understatement of the year."

She smiled most unpleasantly before continuing. "As most of you already know, the majority of you are here because you have written fanfiction of a horrendous quality. You are here because we'd like to correct that. In order to continue writing fanfiction, you will have to endure a year of…lessons. Once the year is over, you will receive your Fanfiction Licenses. If any of you wish to leave now, we will escort you to your own home. However, you will not be permitted to write fanfiction at all. And trust me, we have ways of preventing you."

Miss Irene paused expectantly. There were disgruntled mutters from the students, but nobody got up to leave.

"Good, good. Allow me to introduce the rest of the staff to you, because I know for a fact that at least half of you haven't read the unabridged book and you wouldn't know Babet from Brujon if they mugged you in a dark alleyway…"

"Who's Babet?" whispered a girl sitting in front of Chelsea.

"I rest my case," said Miss Irene. She proceeded to present all of the canonical characters seated on the stage, tactfully introducing Enjolras last. However, when she finally did so, a good ninety percent of the auditorium leapt to their feet and prepared to charge.

A rush at the stage seemed inevitable – and then nobody was quite sure what happened. The dazzling blond revolutionary seemed to _glare_ –

– and every single one of the fangirls found herself seated firmly on her seat, rocking back and forth in the fetal position and whimpering.

"Miss Pelly?" said Miss Irene calmly, as if absolutely nothing had happened. A young woman got up from her seat next to Grantaire. "Miss Pelly is co-coordinator and head of security here at UDÉM. That means she takes care of the mini-Bricks."

"Like this one," said Miss Pelly cheerfully, and held up the squirming book that had been sitting next to her chair. "His name is Garvoch. You'd better keep an eye on your wallets when he's in sight. We've given at least one mini-Brick to each of the canon characters to act as a bodyguard. And if you're wondering why, or what exactly a mini-Brick is, well…you'll find out eventually. It'll be more fun that way." She grinned, a slightly manic look in her eyes.

Chelsea reflected that most of the staff liked to smile in a most disturbing fashion. Also, "fun" in this context sounded more like a "fighting desperately to keep your jugular vein intact while the staff laughs hysterically" sort of fun rather than a "relaxing in the park while fluffy bunnies hop around in the grass nearby" sort of fun. She fiddled nervously with her flowing raven hair.

"Mistress Pathy?" said Miss Irene. Another young woman, who had been sitting next to Combeferre, stood. "Mistress Pathy – not Miss Pathy, _Mistress_ Pathy, mind – is head of the…shall we say, disciplinary department. I trust many of you will be seeing her quite often," continued Miss Irene, with more cheerfulness than was strictly necessary. "She will also be running GrammarBootCamp later in the year, which I'm sure you'll all look forward to," she added. She stepped back from the podium and seated herself as Mistress Pathy came forward.

There was silence as Mistress Pathy surveyed the students.

She smiled.

All of the students instinctively sat up a little straighter. Chelsea stopped fiddling with her hair.

"First of all," Mistress Pathy said crisply, "welcome to l'université. I trust this will be an enlightening experience for all of you. We run things on a system of demerits. I observe that nearly all of you are not wearing your uniforms, for one thing." A murmur of surprise ran through the audience. "Oh, yes. All of you are required to wear uniforms at all times. Appropriate clothing may be worn within your dorms. Corsets and dresses for the ladies, waistcoats and cravats for the gentlemen. I believe you'll find them in your dorms."

The few males in the audience breathed a sigh of relief at the same time as all the females began to protest.

"But, like, it's impossible to _breathe_ in one of those things!" squeaked a girl in the back. Chelsea frowned. Was it really?

"Oh, yes, Lydie Renfroe?" smirked Mistress Pathy. "I suppose you wouldn't be able to defend a barricade very well in one of those, would you? Don't worry, you won't have to do that for a while yet. The female canons will be around measuring your waists every morning. If your waist happens to be over, say, nineteen inches in circumference, you will receive three demerits. Get caught like that three times, and your corsets will be tightened personally by Monsieur Valjean here."

"Fauchelevent," hissed a white-haired man seated at the far left of the stage.

"Er, yes, Fauchelevent. Your corsets will be tightened personally by Monsieur Fauchelevent."

Those few students in the audience that still remembered Valjean's extraordinary strength (those who remembered who Valjean was, anyway) suppressed shudders.

"Also, three demerits for gentlemen who do not have their cravats tied properly or are not wearing waistcoats," continued Mistress Pathy. "Note that 'tied properly' means that your cravat must resemble, in all manners, including exact degree measure, of the daguerrotype of Victor Hugo splashed across the Modern Library reprint edition of the Charles E. Wilbur translation. Combeferre and Joly will be coming around every morning with protractors, so don't think you can escape. And of course, there are demerits for not attending class. Fifty demerits will earn you a detention. You don't want one of those. And if you think that fifty is too high a number, don't fret. You'll get there soon enough." She smiled again, and chills shot down the spines of all students present. "I look forward to seeing all of you there. I've been given a log."

For some reason, the way Mistress Pathy said 'log' made Chelsea think that it was not a simple journal of day-to-day happenings. In fact, it was enunciated in a manner that brought to mind such delightful pastimes as torture, sadism, and ritualistic torment.

Miss Irene came up to the podium again. "Before I let you go, I'll briefly outline some of the more important rules and regulations. You can find out the rest the hard way."

Chelsea didn't like the sound of that.

"Mass will be conducted by the Bishop of Digne on Sunday mornings," resumed Miss Irene. "Attendance is mandatory. It doesn't matter if you're not Catholic; religion is an integral part of _Les Misérables_, and it would do you good to learn about it if you're going to write fanfiction. Demerits will be issued if you choose not to attend."

"Monsieur Prouvaire will be giving Latin lessons in a few days, for those who are interested," added Mistress Pathy.

A young man sitting to the right of the podium waved a hand somewhat shyly, prompting faint squees from some of the audience.

"The university will be in session from 8:30AM," Stifled cheers and exclamations of pleased surprise emanated from the audience. " – to 4:30 PM." Miss Irene said, shuffling a sheet of paper to the front of her stack.

"That's not bad," Chelsea whispered to her neighbor on her left, who shot her a look of acute fear and shook her head. Too late, Chelsea interpreted the motions as '_Don't speak_._'_

"Peterson, demerit!" Mistress Pathy sang from the podium with a rather off-putting grin. "If you think 8:30 is a nice, lovely time to be awake, consider that you're going to have to have been awake long enough to have tied your corsets, dealt with all your underthings and associated apparatus, and become properly coiffed, powdered, and other such appropriate things for ladies."

Chelsea blinked. How long did it take to tie a corset anyway? It couldn't be that bad.

Miss Irene coughed pointedly and continued reading from her paper. "Class sessions are 55 minutes long, with five minutes in between for class change. The full roster of courses offered at L'université will eventually be made available. Until then, do not ask. We will have class from Monday – that's lundi for the French Uninitiated – to Friday – vendredi – and exams and testing will occur on Saturday, which is samedi."

Highly disgruntled mutterings began to arise from the audience. At least one student could be heard saying, "What do you mean, tests on Saturday? That's not human."

"If that continues, demerits all around," Mistress Pathy said, looking strangely delighted.

"As previously stated, complaints may be taken to the Headmaster." Miss Ireny glared in general, and the murmur of unhappiness ceased abruptly. "Testing on Saturday means that tests will not interfere with the usual class schedule. Detentions will take place at Mistress Pathy's discretion."

Mistress Pathy smiled. Someone whimpered.

"The UDÉM staff room is located in the back of the Café Musain – "

Excited whispering broke out in the audience.

" – which is _strictly_ off-limits to all students," Miss Irene continued coolly.

"And you'd better not try to sneak in," added Miss Pelly, absentmindedly petting Garvoch. "We're not responsible for any injuries or deaths that occur as a result of attempting to do so."

The whispering slowly died.

"You will be allowed to explore the city of Paris every weekend, provided your behavior is exemplary. I don't want to hear about any…incidents occurring, mind you. Classes begin a week from now; during this week, you will be able to explore UDÉM. Have fun while you can. Are there any questions?"

Several hands shot up.

"You there. Yes…ah…" Miss Irene shuffled through a stack of papers on the podium. "Ameline de Castel, is it?"

"Yeah," said the girl. "You're female. Why are you wearing a waistcoat?"

"As course coordinator, the young ladies' uniform does not apply to me. Plus, I like waistcoats. Two demerits for asking a stupid question." She scanned the audience and shuffled through the papers again. "Jen Valjean?" (Javert looked up suddenly; M. Fauchelevent twitched.)

"Uh, why is there a ferret with glasses on your shoulder?"

"Ah, yes." Miss Irene set the papers down on the podium and lifted the mustelid off of her shoulder. "This fellow was created several weeks ago by a particularly badly written fanfiction. He's a Combeferret. Quite an intellectual little creature, really."

The Combeferret blinked and yawned.

"The staff would like to find out who created him, so that they may…properly reward the creator. If you have any idea, do let us know." Miss Irene smiled and allowed it to clamber back onto her shoulder. "A good question. One demerit."

"Wha – "

"Next! You would be…Chelsea, is that it?"

"Yeah," said Chelsea. "I want to know why – _hey, ow!"_ she squeaked as she discovered rather abruptly that her flowing black hair had been braided to her seat.

"You want to know why hey ow?" repeated Miss Irene, her face perfectly straight.

"My haaaiir!" squawked Chelsea, waving her arms frantically and nearly hitting Jennifer in the face. "Ow!"

"Indeed," said Mistress Pathy, who seemed to be trying hard to hide a smile. "Gavroche, Navet, I think you'd better untie her hair."

"Messieurs Gavroche and Navet are very sorry," chirped a solemn voice from behind Chelsea, "but it would be impossible to undo those knots."

"Ow!" wailed Chelsea, whose face was beginning to turn bright red.

"What Gavroche means to say," added another voice hurriedly, "is that we can't remember how."

"Well, you asked for hair like that, Chelsea," said Miss Pelly. "Can't imagine why, really. A 'cascade of ebony hare,' was it? With a description like that, you're lucky you didn't wind up with a continuous flow of wooden rabbits coming out of your head. Three demerits for poor spelling, and another two for making a scene. Next!"

Chelsea subsided in a rather disgruntled fashion, still sniffling a bit.

"The Republic thanks you, citizeness," a voice at her ear whispered. She tried to turn around, but couldn't due to the state of her hair. "That was the most fun we've had since Mme. Houcheloup borrowed a book of Gandalf's special recipes from OFUM."

"Don't mention it," Chelsea responded grumpily. "Could you get me free now that you've had your fun?"

"Ah, well, didn't you hear Navet? We can't remember how."

"Um, well, how much money will it take you to remember? I have a few dollars…"

There was a burst of laughter from behind her at the same time as Mistress Pathy said gleefully, "Two demerits for causing a disturbance, Mlle. Peterson."

After what seemed like hours, Miss Irene finally dismissed the students ("Breakfast is at eight; we feel oddly compelled to warn you that Mme. Houcheloup is in charge of the kitchens, and Alka-Seltzers don't exist in nineteenth-century France"). In a surprisingly short time, the auditorium was empty, except for Chelsea and Jennifer.

"So, um," said Chelsea, in the general direction of Gavroche and Navet.

"They're not there anymore," Jennifer said in a pseudo-sympathetic voice.

"Oh," said Chelsea. Then, "_What?_"

"They're not there - " Jennifer began.

"No, I got that part," Chelsea interrupted. "But how am I supposed to get _loose_?"

"Well, that would be a problem," Jennifer said. "Want me to find a pair of scissors?"

"_No!_" Chelsea squeaked, clutching at her hair despite the pain she earned for doing so.

"So what else can you do?" Jennifer inquired, brushing her hair out of her face in a slightly exasperated manner.

"I don't know!" Chelsea was on the verge of tears. "This is _insane_!"

"Indeed," said a highly amused voice. Both girls looked up – with a quiet "_Ow!_" from Chelsea – to see a rather handsome young man leaning against a chair. His cravat was somewhat rakishly askew and a smile threatening to turn rather smirkish was all over his face.

"Who are you?" Chelsea asked.

"That's Monsieur Courfeyrac," Jennifer said. "Weren't you paying attention when he was introduced?"

"Thank you, Jennifer," Monsieur Courfeyrac said pleasantly. "I suppose you're Chelsea, then? The one with the hares?"

Chelsea blushed. So, maybe spelling wasn't her strongest suit. It didn't mean that everyone had to make fun of her for it.

"So – er, Monsieur Courfeyrac," Jennifer said hesitantly. "I don't suppose there's some way to free Chelsea's hair?"

"Well, I don't honestly know," Monsieur Courfeyrac admitted. "I'm just here because there's a missing mini – a_ha_!"

The A_ha_ pertained to a very solid, rather sharp-teethed book, again sideburned. It was scuttling rapidly toward Chelsea's legs with an air of great expectation. From where she was sitting, Chelsea couldn't be too sure, but she swore she saw _Javart_ written on it and was muttering something like _"The law is not mocked you shouldn't be loitering I'll give you the law I will."_ Chelsea was suitably horrified and emitted a sound that said as much.

"Courfeyrac?" Another voice rang from the door of the auditorium. "Have you found – oh - it's Miss Peterson, isn't it?"

Chelsea made a valiant effort to twist her legs away from the mini-Brick and her head toward the speaker, but found the movement contained an unfortunate amount of excruciating pain. It appeared that Gavroche and Navet's knots _tightened _with her every move.

"Combeferre!" Courfeyrac saluted cheerily. "Just who I wanted to see. Have you got anything with which to loose poor Chelsea's hair?"

"Oh, yes," Monsieur Combeferre sighed and walked into view, pushing up his spectacles. "Gavroche and Navet don't mean any harm, Miss Peterson, but they can be a little bit of trouble."

"A little?" Chelsea ground out. Jennifer kicked her, which did _not_ help to remove her legs from the immediate range of the slavering Javart.

"Well, a lot," Monsieur Combeferre said, a hint of a smile in his voice. "Now, let's see. It's a good thing I was going to the dissection room. I happen to have my kit with me."

There was a _dissection_ room in the school? Chelsea blinked. Then realized that dissection tools meant all sorts of dead … _things_ … in her hair. Who knew _what _Monsieur Combeferre had cut up with those scalpels and scissors and things? (She hadn't really paid attention in Biology; she considered herself much more of a literary sort of person.) Maybe frogs, or rats, or even rabbits. What if she wound up with _rabbit guts _in her brand-new black hair?

"There, that's done then," Monsieur Combeferre said, and stepped back from her chair. Chelsea blinked again. When had that happened? "You can stand now," Monsieur Combeferre added, sounding amused. Chelsea did so.

"You untied it!" She said, startled into gathering her ebony tresses into her arms and hugging them. "How?"

Monsieur Combeferre looked somewhat embarrassed. "I have, er, certain tools in my kit …"

"He means," Monsieur Courfeyrac added, "That he used his magical Combeferrian properties and those tweezer-like things he uses to disentangle – intestine, is it?"

Chelsea had enough time to think, _Wow, I can barely remember who these people are but they're really _interesting, before the implications of 'intestine' caught up to her and she hit the ground in a dead faint.

-----

_To be continued…soon, we hope. Updates may be somewhat sporadic during the school year, as we're a bunch of overworked high school students with demanding teachers._


	3. Culinary Crisis

Mistress Pathy says hello and apologises for the extremely erratic writing and/or updating. The writing may or may not be, recently at least, Mistress Pathy's fault. Our dear readers may rest assured that Mistress Pathy has been suitably harangued for this.

_Miss Irene would like to apologize for the inexcusable lateness of this chapter. All angry e-mails, complaints, etc. may be directed at her._

**Disclaimer:**We don't own Les Misérables in any of its book, musical, or film incarnations.

-----

**Université des Écrivains Misérables**

By Bubonic Woodchuck, lokogato-sama, and TheZorpisuttle

Betaed by GreenCat3

Chapter Three: Culinary Crisis

-----

Chelsea woke up and stared at the ceiling.

The ceiling stared back with large, sparkling eyes, multi-coloured wings, and an extremely wide smile that might have been charming had it not been for the puce-coloured fangs protruding from between the baby-blue lips.

It was when this countenance morphed and instead became instead that of a very confused, Picasso-esque Charles the Second and Slightly Crazy Habsburg that Chelsea decided that being aware was far too overrated, and went back to blissful unconsciousness.

-----

Some time later, she was rudely awoken from pleasant, possibly golden-haired-revolutionary-involving dreams by a voice urgently saying, "Chelsea. Chelsea, you've been asleep for _five hours_."

"Thassnoalot." Chelsea said, displaying her tremendous verbal skill.

"But during the day it is, especially if you've missed breakfast," the voice said, and Chelsea finally summoned the energy to open her eyes to see the face of … what was her name? Verity, Chelsea remembered – the girl next door.

"What happened to Jennifer?" Chelsea asked, alarmed. Had her roommate been eaten by a rampaging pair of mini-Bricks? What if she'd been dissected? Chelsea's mind, perhaps not entirely recovered from its rather unexpected rendezvous with the hard auditorium floor, ran through endless horrible situations. Each scenario was followed by a slightly hysterical _And what if I'm next?_

"Er, no," Verity said. "She's just gone to look for the library. Lunch is in roughly fifteen minutes, though, so she's actually probably heading for the cafeteria by now."

Chelsea mentally weighed the merits of eating food versus the merits of sleep.

"I think I'll just go back to s -- " she began, but a rather loud, angry sound interrupted her.

"The cafeteria?" Verity suggested.

Chelsea blushed, sheepishly patting her still-growling stomach. "Yeah, maybe."

"Good luck," Verity sighed. "Maybe lunch will be better."

With that somewhat cryptic and very ominous sentence, Chelsea followed her neighbour through the large, maze-like school. During the walk to the auditorium, she'd been flustered by her sudden relocation and more than a little bowled over by fangirlism and as such hadn't really taken note of her new surroundings. Now, she realised that not only was this university anachronistic, it appeared to be extremely large as well, with numerous students milling in and out of dormitories, classrooms, mysteriously darkened areas (students emerging from said areas invariably wore expressions of abject terror) and other sundry places.

As they passed by a set of especially large doors, the doors opened, admitting a delighted-looking Jennifer and a short, red-haired, very frightened-looking girl. The four girls fell in step, Jennifer and Verity beginning a lively conversation concerning the library from which Jennifer had just departed.

"The library is amazing!" Jennifer informed them cheerfully. The girl beside her jumped at her loud tone. "Er – yes, and this is Lydie Renfroe. Lydie, Verity and Chelsea."

Verity nodded at the petite redhead, then at the impressive library doors. "So it's got good stuff?"

"It's amazing!" Jennifer reaffirmed. "It has all sorts of things. All of Victor Hugo's works are in there, unabridged, both in French and translated into English. Voltaire, too, and Rousseau … There are critical guides as well, although I didn't really look at the big research books and the like."

"The original books are much more interesting," Verity laughed. Chelsea glanced back and forth between then, utterly lost.

"And there are books on the French Revolution of 1789," Jennifer said cheerfully. "Oh, I thought you might find this interesting: I think I spotted a biography on Saint-Just, but I only caught it out of the corner of my eye as I was leaving."

"Really?" Verity suddenly looked very, very interested and just a little bit scary. Chelsea hadn't the faintest idea who exactly 'Saint-Just' was. "Those are hard to find."

"Like I said, it has all sorts of things," Jennifer replied, grinning.

Very abruptly, Chelsea stopped. So did the other three.

"What is that _smell_?" Chelsea asked, as politely as possible.

"I think we've reached the cafeteria," Jennifer said, looking a little green.

"Breakfast wasn't this bad," Lydie whimpered, looking very much like she would run away if she could.

"Er – calf's-foot jelly sound familiar to anyone?" Verity asked hopefully. "Because that's what it says we're having."

Indeed, a large sign posted beside a set of greyish swinging doors read "CALF'S-FOOT JELLY, MASHED POTATOES, COW; WINE, MILK, or WATER FROM THE WELL IN THE WOODS."

They read this sign.

They blinked.

They read this sign again.

Lydie inserted, "There are woods?"

And then they blinked again.

Finally, Chelsea ventured, "Does anyone besides me notice that they've written 'COW' instead of 'BEEF'?"

"Yes," Verity muttered. "Unfortunately."

"Oh, good," Chelsea said. "I'd begun to think I was seeing things."

"You'll wish you were," said a very-suddenly-appearing Miss Pelly. The students jumped. "I can tell you now the cafeteria staff doesn't mince words, so I'd place a heavy bet that the odds are, if that's what's written, that's precisely what they mean."

All four looked less than delighted at this news.

"Anyway," Miss Pelly said cheerily. "I'm going to lunch at Musain. Staff room food, you know. By the way, have you seen Courfyerac?"

"Er," Said Jennifer. "Do you mean Monsieur Courfeyrac?"

"No, I mean – ah, there he is!" Miss Pelly's meaning soon became all too clear as a mini-Brick scuttled at a frighteningly high velocity across the floor. "There you are. I told you not to run away before lunch. The minis have _such_ a tendency to run off …"

Chelsea watched, not just a bit disturbed, as Miss Pelly scooped up the squirming mini-Brick, cuddled it a little, and walked off apparently_ cooing_ to it. In Chelsea's humble opinion, there was nothing _less_ adorable than the mini-Bricks, but she supposed that everyone was, after all, entitled to his or her own taste.

More disturbing, however, was the prospect of eating whatever it was that lay behind those grey portals.

Taking care to breath through their mouths, they pushed through the doors.

"Line up here for jelly!" An exceptionally large, red-haired woman stood behind a counter, wielding a ladle as if it were a scimitar. For all the red gloop spattered over it, it might as well have _actually_ been one. Chelsea gulped with apprehension as they neared the giantess.

"That's Mme. Thénardier," Lydie whispered. "She scares the lights out of me."

Although Lydie looked as if just about everything, fluffy white bunny rabbits and brightly coloured moths included, scared the lights out of her, Chelsea had to heartily agree.

"Jelly?" the Mme. Thénardier asked with what must have been an attempt at an ingratiating smile, threatening – er, _offering _the ladle at Chelsea.

"Um - " Chelsea said, frozen in the act of reaching for a clean plate.

"It's very good," said Madame, in a voice that may have been cajoling had it not issued from an unnervingly large and suspicious-looking form. "Try some."

Without further preamble, she dropped a glob of the reddish-brown stuff onto Chelsea's plate.

"Thank you," Chelsea said, then added "Eurgh," when she got out of earshot.

"You got caught by Madame, too?" Verity sighed. "I almost managed to avoid her successfully. Her eyes are too sharp, though. Probably trained through years of inn hostessing."

"Er – sure," Chelsea, who didn't really remember who the Thénardiers were beyond the fact that they had been mean, agreed.

"I think the mashed potatoes are safe," a girl said as she passed by, with an air of imparting a great secret.

"Oh, good," said Lydie, escaping from Madame. "Let's try to find those."

A little further down the line, they came across what Chelsea assumed was Mme. Thénardier's husband, if the maxim 'opposites attract' indeed held true. He was smallish and cunning-looking, although equally threatening in appearance as he held out a perfectly levelled spoonful of mashed potatoes.

"Spoon of mashed potatoes?" he inquired.

"That's like _half_ a spoon!" Chelsea said, indignant.

"Well, now, good friends shouldn't quibble over such small differences, Mam'selle," Monsieur Thénardier said, dumping the painfully small amount of mashed potatoes unceremoniously onto her plate. "A spoon is a spoon, right, Mam'selle?"

Chelsea walked a little faster as she headed away from Monsieur's very unnerving smile.

"There you are," Jennifer said, coming from another counter. "The – um – cow's over there, if you want any. We're sitting over by the window on the second level. Good thing we're early, isn't it?"

Chelsea nodded, catching sight of Verity and a cowering Lydie already seated by a large, open window, an entire flight of stairs away from the serving lines. With the goal of fresh air in mind, she ploughed toward the 'cow' counter, where a large, bearded woman – wait. Something wasn't quite right with that sentence, and for once it wasn't her grammar _or_ her spelling.

_Bearded_?

Chelsea stared, then remembered to be polite and averted her eyes just in time to witness what appeared to be a piece of meat freshly hacked off of a living cow being placed next to her tiny mound of mashed potatoes. Glancing up, she half-expected to see a very put-upon cow, waiting for the next student to require a piece of its hindquarters, but instead met the eyes of a girl who looked as if she were two seconds short of falling asleep into her pan of meat.

"Um, thank you?" She said hesitantly. The girl glanced sleepily at her and gave just the slightest nod of acknowledgment.

Thoroughly uneasy, Chelsea made her way to the table by the window and found that, indeed, the slightest hint of fresh air made the area bearable.

"Is it going to be like this every day?" she asked, sitting and eyeing her food distrustfully as it positively jiggled.

"Well, the course coordinators _did _say something about 'food passes' and 'breathing passes' for extremely good behaviour," Jennifer said, shrugging. "But I think the general idea isn't exactly to make us feel cheery and at home."

"The entire set-up _is_ a bit sadistic, isn't it?" Verity agreed, poking her meat with a fork. Chelsea, taking her cue, attempted to do the same with her own.

It squeaked.

"It's _alive_!" She shrieked, all but jumping away from the table. "It's making_ noises_!"

"Well," Verity said, tapping her fork against her darkly coloured beef with a distinct 'thunk' sound. "Mine's _quite_ dead."

"No," Chelsea said frantically. "I mean it _actually_ made a noise."

They all stared at Chelsea's beef.

"Um, I'm sorry to interrupt," A voice said. "I think that was me."

They all stared at the girl standing by their table.

She was … _colourful_, to say the least. Her hair must have had at least three equally improbable colours streaked through it, her eyes appeared to have yellow bits in them, and her skin all but reflected the light back at the source. It hurt to look at her for longer than a five-minute interval.

"I'm Crystal Shanda Lear," she said importantly. "I'm sorry I squeaked. I thought I saw Enjolras outside the window."

"…" said Jennifer, a true feat of vocalisation. "Despite the fact that this window is on the second-story …"

"Yes, well, it's _Enjolras_," Crystal said. "He can do _everything_."

"You're a fangirl," Verity said bluntly.

"Oh, I love Enjolras too!" Chelsea squealed. "Is he really outside the window?"

Verity and Jennifer looked at her with distinctly 'and-I-let-you-breathe-the-same-_air_' expressions.

"What?" She demanded. "What? Don't _you_ fangirl someone?"

"Well," Verity's expression took on a slightly dreamy cast. "I'm_ definitely_ getting my hands on that Saint-Just biography, that's for sure."

Chelsea blinked and nodded. Right. Saint-Just must have been in one of the boring parts of the book – before Enjolras. Wait, was there even anything _important_ besides Enjolras? He was like, the main character, wasn't he? Maybe Verity just had a thing for minor characters.

"No," said Jennifer with a blank stare. "I find all the characters interesting, although Messieurs Valjean and Javert are particularly fascinating."

Chelsea nodded again. Right. Valjean and Javert hadn't really been in the main part of book, she remembered. They'd just sort of … been off to the side during the barricades. Which were the most important anyway, right? For some reason, this long-cherished tenet of her existence seemed very fragile at the moment.

"_Javert_?" Crystal said, echoing Chelsea's thoughts rather loudly. "He's so _mean_! And _ugly_!"

There was silence all around.

"You must have really hated the 1998 movie," Verity noted. Jennifer, it appeared, was too incensed to unlock her jaw and emit normal speech. Chelsea didn't get it. Well, maybe Crystal was a bit blunt, but she was _right_, wasn't she?

"What?" Crystal said. "Oh, I didn't watch it. I wanted Orlando Bloom to play Enjolras, but he totally _didn't_, and I only watch movies with Orly in them."

There was silence all around. Again.

"Um," said Lydie Renfroe. All eyes swivelled to her and she appeared to shrink. "Doesn't that make a total of, um, ten movies?"

"_Twelve_ if you count each of the Lord of the Rings movies separately," Crystal said. "And I don't see why that short guy was so important. I mean, Elijah Wood is cute and all, but Orly's obviously _much_ cooler."

"Er," said Chelsea, feeling the urge to reassert her presence. "Anyway, was there anything you needed?"

"Oh, right!" Crystal flashed a dazzling smile. "Can I sit here?"

"Sure!" Chelsea said, glad to have a fellow Enjolras fan nearby. Verity and Jennifer shot her death glares.

"So, anyway," began Crystal as she plonked herself beside Chelsea, "like I was saying, Orl – _oh my gawd Enjy! It's really him! Squeeee – "_

The other three girls were left staring at Crystal's empty seat.

"That was…interesting," said Verity carefully. Chelsea was too busy looking round wildly to respond. She'd seen Enjy?! Where was he?! Why hadn't Crystal told her first?!

"It_ is_ Enjolras!" exclaimed a girl seated nearby. "What's he doing here?"

Chelsea's gaze followed her pointing finger to the open window nearest their table. The blond revolutionary in question was, indeed, standing on the other side of it, looking rather preoccupied. Chelsea's breath caught in her throat. It – it was _Enjy!_ It was Enjy and he was standing less than ten feet away!

"Where's Crystal?" wondered Jennifer. Chelsea didn't know, and she certainly didn't care. There was the dull scrape of seats all over the cafeteria being pushed back; a few seconds more, and the world went all blurry as she and at least half the other students thundered toward the apparently distracted Enjolras. Several of the students made interesting smacking noises as they ran into the wall, but Chelsea only smirked and dove through the window.

She was smarter than they were! She was a better Enjy fangirl! She was only two feet away from him!

She was…falling?

The last thing she heard before everything went black for the second time that day was Verity's voice in the distance musing, "Hey, Jennifer, aren't we sitting on the second level?"

-----

"I suppose you think that was terribly clever of you," said Mistress Pathy.

Miss Irene looked up irritably. "It seemed like a good idea at the time, all right? You know – reinforce our motto of 'Learn Through Pain.' Trying To Glomp Your Lust Object Every Time You See Him Or Her Is Not Conducive To Your Health."

"Except it backfired."

"Yeah, there was that." Miss Irene sighed and scratched the Combeferret behind the ears. "Although you have to admit the sight of them hurling themselves through the window at Enjolras _was_ pretty funny."

"I think the just the sight of Enjolras on stilts was funny enough as it was."

"Irene?" Miss Pelly poked her head through the staffroom door. "Combeferre and Joly say they're out of gauze."

"Oh, Cosette'll handle it," said Mistress Pathy. "Just let her know."

"Okay. And that was a crap idea, by the way."

Miss Irene frowned. "Yeah, well, how was I supposed to know that all the Combeferre and Joly fangirls would start getting themselves into dangerous situations so they'd wind up in the sickbay, too?"

"You have to give some of them points for creativity, though," mused Miss Pelly.

"Jumping in the Seine in the hopes that a passing medical student will see you and rescue you is _not _creative. How is Mlle. Moreau, by the way? Not completely drowned, I hope?"

"Reneé?" said Mistress Pathy. "Javert had to fish her out; she was absolutely terrified."

"I bet he was happy about that."

"Actually, he was rather amused," said Miss Pelly. "I believe his exact words were 'Let's see how long it takes before she dies of cholera.' We think she'll live, though honestly, a real Joly fangirl would have remembered that he probably wouldn't want to go anywhere _near_ the Seine."

"Good, good." Miss Irene turned back to the paper she held in her hand. "Now – the matter of tomorrow's Not-So-Subtle Practical Lesson. It's Pathy's turn to come up with an idea, isn't it?"

Mistress Pathy grinned. "It is indeed. And I think I have a good one…"

-----

_Again, profuse apologies for not updating sooner. Applications are still open, for those who are interested!_


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